


go out and find yourself happy

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Series: let's dance in the kitchen and call it something like love [10]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: 'shakes DC with the fire of a thousand suns, 'wipes away a single tear like a three timed widowed giraffe', AND GOSH DARN IT HE'S GETTING SOME, Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Damian Wayne, Assassins & Hitmen, Babies, Babysitting, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily Dynamics (DCU), Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, But he's coming along, Characters Watching Disney Movies, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Loves Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne Needs Love, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Damian Wayne-centric, Damian is the least qualified person for this, Dancing, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne Bonding, Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne are Siblings, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Disney Movies, Gen, Growing Up, Happy Batfamily (DCU), He's not a grown up yet, I adore him, LET YOUR CHARACTERS GROW UP AND BE HAPPY GOSH DARN IT, Like a whole truckload, Or dreamworks, Protective Damian Wayne, Sibling Bonding, Singing, Teenagers, Tiny Humans are Smol and I love them, Toddlers, but he's getting there, figuring himself out, he does pretty good though, i honestly cannot remember at this point and it takes too much effort to care, or so he thinks, their relationship is so beautiful, we're all very proud of that lima bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Damian, a little older and a little wiser, on his way to figuring himself out.“I should be out there,” he says, mostly to himself.The two year old sitting next to him, building a small block tower, makes a mock trumpeting sound with his lips pressed together. Damian side eyes him and then checks the apartment for intruders. Again.“I’m going to assume you were agreeing with me."
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Series: let's dance in the kitchen and call it something like love [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665436
Comments: 40
Kudos: 275





	go out and find yourself happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [average_lasagna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/average_lasagna/gifts).



> For average_lasagna, who prompted: "I’d love to see your favorite characters dancing. maybe to musicals or Disney songs? those are always fun to dance/sing badly to. ooh, i have another prompt. you don't have to do this, but what if anyone from batfam rescues someone and the person starts freaking out? so to help them calm down/make them feel safer, they start dancing with them"
> 
> Title is from my mum, who accidentally sent a text too early. The second half of the text was ""little pokemon friends," because I adore her but she does not understand Pokemon Go in the slightest. Still, I liked the first part <3
> 
> Please think of the two year old in this story as more of a "one year old just turned two" rather than a "two year old almost three." The character is based off of a couple of kids I've taken care of in real life and I adore them.

Damian is the least qualified person to be doing this. 

The apartment is small and dark, a tiny hole in the wall in a quieter part of downtown. Outside, he can hear the ever present sirens, and if he focuses he can hear the chatter of his neighbors, fans hissing to combat the lazy afternoon heat, the slow comings and goings of the building’s creaky elevator.

_ Their _ neighbors, he supposes.

He sits on the floor, cross legged and tired. The hours drip between his fingers like molasses, and he counts as the minutes slide by and the sun goes down, waiting until he and his charge will finally be picked up.

The rest of his family are taking down a particularly stubborn mob after weeks of investigation and undercover work.

“I should be out there,” he says, mostly to himself.

The two year old sitting next to him, building a small block tower, makes a mock trumpeting sound with his lips pressed together. Damian side-eyes him and then checks the apartment for intruders. Again. 

“I’m going to assume you were agreeing with me.”

The kid doesn’t really respond, just hums and smashes his tower before letting out a happy shriek, pulling himself to his feet to scramble off to who knows where.

Damian would let him, except the whole point is that he  _ doesn’t _ let the kid out of his sight, considering the mob hit on his head and the important political figurehead being blackmailed as they sit in the apartment.

So instead he grabs the boy for the upteenth time, preventing him from toddling off into the kitchen.

“No, Mattias. Sit down.”

Giggling, Mattias flails wimpy arms before plopping down on his butt.

“Sit do-wn?”

Damian nods, peering at the boy. His diction is rather horrible, but he supposes he can’t quite hold it against him. 

“Yes, sit down. That’s right.”

The kid hums something utterly inane, wiggling, and exclaims with far too much enthusiasm, “Sit do _ -wn!” _

He doesn’t know what Richard was  _ thinking. _ Damian is quite literally the worst possible person for this job: he doesn’t know how to take care of  _ children. _ He hardly knew how to be a child himself when he actually  _ was _ one, and now that he was well into his teen years things were only looking more hopeless on that front. 

Not that he wanted to be treated like a child. He had grown past such urges when he was only a few years older than the boy besides him. He haS long since settled his history and moved on with his life.

Damian is happy. He’s happy where he is, with his family, with this existence he’s built up for himself with his own scarred and calloused hands, small as they once were. He’s going to pass Richard in height soon, and he knows for a fact that Stephanie is planning some sort of camping trip come his birthday. 

Damian is happy, but this doesn’t mean he’s suddenly become a competent child tender. 

And yet, here he is, watching as Mattias casually stuffs a bright yellow brick into his mouth, on high alert in case some dangerous hitman tries to make his attempt. 

“Out of your mouth,” he says, as gently as he can, and tugs the block away.

He feels too big in his skin. He feels like a giant, compared to this tiny being besides him. He must have been this small, once. He must have toddled and giggled and tried to eat things not made to be eaten, fumbling through words with an unpracticed tongue.

At some point, Damian was this young and small and helpless. 

A strange thought indeed.

“Mouth!” Mattias shouts, tapping a few meaty fingers over his lips and grinning up at Damian with his eyes squinched up tight.

“...yes. That is your mouth.” The silence settles, and then- because it is awkward and because he might as well, he asks, “And where are your eyes?”

The boy splays a hand over his nose. 

“Nose.”

“That is your nose, yes, but where are your  _ eyes?” _

Mattias giggles, looking up at Damian with large brown orbs. It does not in any way make him feel soft.

Not at all.

“Eyes!”

“Ears?”

Palms slide across chubby cheeks, pulling them wide before clamping down on small ears, fingers splayed and sticking out from a head of thick hair. 

“ _ Eaa-rs. _ Mm-mm-ah-ah! _ ” _

Damian blinks.

“Are you pretending to be a monkey?”

“Monkey! Oo-oo- ah-ah!”

Toddlers are such strange, strange creatures. Damian slowly nods, trying to find some semblance of dignity in all this madness. “Ooh-ooh-ah-ah. Yes. That is the noise a generic monkey…. supposedly makes. What about a cow? What noise does a cow make?”

“Mooooo _ oooo.” _

“I have a cow you know. Her name is Batcow. She’s lovely.”

“Cow.  _ Moooo.” _

“I also have a dog. His name is Titus. I think you’d like him.”

Mattias climbs to his feet and pulls himself up onto the couch, giggling like mad. He jumps on the cushions- which Damian quickly puts a stop to when the kid nearly topples right off again head first- and peers down at him with his new vantage point.

“Puppy. Woof, woof.”

“Close enough.”

Another poor imitation of a dog, and then the kid shrieks and throws himself backwards onto the cushions, squirming away when Damian tries to make him sit upright. 

He clenches his fist in frustration-

And then slowly breathes out, because it doesn’t  _ matter. _ This is just a child. Children mess up and misbehave and do things improper and silly. All children do that.

You _ didn’t,  _ some small, traitorous part of his brain whispers.

_ Shut up, _ he tells that part of his mind, that part that wants to weep at the unfairness of it all, and he breathes, reaches out, and tugs at the kid’s ankle until he labours himself upright to look at him, hair flopping messily over itself in a nest of tangles.

He swallows hard. It’s so stupid to feel jealous of a two year old. It’s irrational, is what it is.

_ Breathe,  _ he thinks, and he does.

“What noise does a cat-”

And then he pauses.

And then he  _ freezes. _

There’s the sound of gunfire coming from down the hall.

They’ve been found.

And there’s no  _ time.  _ No time to think, no time to explain- for what little it would be worth- because the sound of gunfire means that the rest of the family has failed to subdue the mob and that they’re in danger, that Mattias is in danger, and they need to  _ hide. _

Luckily, there’s a very specific reason why this was the chosen apartment complex. 

Damian swoops the kid up into his arm and sprints deeper into the apartment, slipping inside the fake wardrobe of the master bedroom and tugging at the false bottom until the trap door swings open.

He takes a deep breath of fresh air, exhales, and drops inside, closing the lid behind him and engaging all the locks.

_ Small, _ he thinks and it’s the truth. The safe room is hardly large enough for him to stand in and only a few paces wide. It was definitely designed for a singular individual to sit down in the corner and simply wait for rescue, and now Damian and his charge are both hiding with a few necessary supplies, diapers and snacks and water.

_ Small,  _ he thinks, and pushes his first thought of a coffin  _ down, down, down. _

And then he realises that Mattias is blubbering, that he's gripping the child's wrist far too hard to be comfortable, that he  _ hurt  _ him-

_ Idiot-  _ he thinks _ , idiot, you hurt him, the whole point was to protect him and you hurt him- _

He breathes. Mattias' small face begins to scrunch up in tears, and Damian thinks of the people hunting them down as they speak and he thinks of the capsule they're sitting in, not quite sound proof, and determines that a toddler's wailing truly won't help their circumstances. 

He really was the worst choice for this.

"Shh," he hushes, and only a little desperately, "shhh, you have to be quiet, now, remember your training-"

He breathes, he closes his eyes. 

Mattias doesn't have any training. 

The only training normal children ever really get is potty training. 

Normal  _ people _ go their whole lives without the kind of training Damian knows in excruciatingly vivid detail. 

_ Breathe,  _ he thinks, and he does 

_ Not the time,  _ he thinks, and it isn't. 

But his chest, it aches. And his hands shake as he tries to soothe the kid in his arms, bouncing up and down, whispering little nothings he only knows because of how often they fell from Richard's lips. 

He must have been this small once. He must have been this helpless. He must have been shushed and bounced and  _ loved-  _

He must have, right?

"I have you," he whispers, "I have you," and he doubts.

There are gunmen in the apartment above them. If he were younger, he thinks he would have clambered out of their hidey hole and faced them off. He thinks he would have fought them, unprepared and outnumbered, solely because any other option would have been seen as the coward's way out.

But he is older now, and steadier in his soul. And he measures the passing seconds and he breathes and he holds the child in his arms and thinks  _ you will never have to learn as I did. _

Mattias' quiet cries are building up, louder and louder.

A part of Damian, the part that has been cut and bled and soldered for his own survival, that has murdered and struggled and withstood tests and trials and tribulations, a part of him hisses  _ crying is for the weak, caring is for the weak, he needs to be better- _

And this person who he has become, this Damian who has grown into his own-

He thinks  _ he's a baby. He's a baby, and crying is human, and caring is not weak, it's not, it's n o t - _

He breathes.

All these little artifices. Damian has clawed his way through healing, piece by bloody piece. He has fallen down and dragged himself back up again. He has tried so hard and for so long and progress has been so slow but-

But Damian is more than his childhood. 

On early mornings, Damian wakes up and clambers on top of the roof to sketch the sunrise. He thinks, at this point, that everyone he knows has a painting of that view, the soft fingers of light stretching across the grounds, colouring everything warm and golden. Not a single portrait is ever the same, but he has come to be a practiced hand at drawing this, the trees and rose bushes and that softly sloped hill, Gotham’s city skyline standing proud in the background.

He’s not sure what it means, to come out there, to face that early morning sun and watch a new day fold itself into existence. But it means something, and Damian does it every day, headphones on and music playing, hoodie soft against his skin. 

It is a choice. And he makes it. Again and again and again.

And perhaps this is the point, the choosing, the waking up and starting anew. It is always about choices for this boy, who went for so long lost and alone and without, a small boat being thrown around by all sides in a turbulent sea.

Damian  _ chooses. _ He wakes up in the early mornings and he eats breakfast with Alfred, lets his father ruffle his hair and rolls his eyes as Duke mimics him. Stephanie sends him snapchats of various incessant things and Damian rolls his eyes and sends back a picture of his most current work in progress so that she may gush over it. Harper always snorts and flicks him on the head as she passes, half awake and in deep caffeine withdrawal, and Cullen always shrugs like  _ what can you do _ , compliments his sketch before sliding on by.

He patrols in the late evenings, teaming up with Cassandra or Jason or even Timothy, Barbara’s voice ringing in all their ears, and they fight crime and they save people who have no training and no calloused hands- small or otherwise- and they do good.

(Damian chooses to do good.)

And on weekends Richard comes, smiles brighter than any sunrise, and takes him back to his apartment, and they eat takeout and watch movies and talk about their week. Sometimes, Richard drags him places, up into the mountains or birdwatching in the park. Sometimes they just stay home, in a crummy little flat filled with knick knacks and mementos and clashing colours, where Damian’s favourite tea is always stocked in the cupboards and there’s a bedroom always waiting for him: soft blue second-hand sheets, a rickety desk meant for homework but scattered with art and doodles, and a ceiling full of plastic stars.

Damian is so much more than this rotting, broken thing that was implanted in his chest and imprinted into the curve of his spine. He is so much more than the ways other people hurt him.

He has gone out into this world filled with all its darkness and shattered truths and he has found himself happiness, has built it with his calloused palms brick by brick and inch by inch. He has planted a seed within himself and watched it grow into something bright and beautiful.

It is a choice, it is always,  _ always  _ a choice, and it is one he makes every day, even if it is not easy and is not kind.

This is healing. He carved it unto his own. It was never fair that his childhood was so empty and hollow and hallowed, but he has filled himself with fresh dirt and warm laughter and the way he can make people smile. He has filled himself with _ happiness, _ and is letting go of his anger, and he is moving on.

"You're going to be okay," he whispers into thick black hair, and he means it.

Mattias wails, and Damian shushes him, wincing.

And Richard comes to him in his mind, sitting on the couch with an arm thrown over his shoulder, smiling so patiently down at him with his scars pale in the living room's lights. The movie had been ridiculous, a saturation of colours so intense that it had hurt his eyes- with a silly story and inane humour and a half assed attempt at a lesson in morals...

But Richard had insisted, had  _ wanted,  _ and Damian- even then, when he was ten and sharp in all his edges- had wanted nothing less then the man to be happy.

So they had watched.

The words come to him now, in spits and spurts and starts, from one of those ridiculous songs.

And Damian can see him, can see Dick dancing in the kitchen, making pancakes and singing along with the Frozen soundtrack, waggling his eyebrows at him whenever their gazes manage to meet. And Damian had rolled his eyes, had complained, and had tapped his foot against the bar of his stool.

The idea is better than nothing.

He rocks the boy in his arm and keeps his eyes on the trap door above. If they’re found, Damian will fight to protect this child in his arms, because it is  _ right _ and  _ not  _ because there are far too many emotions crammed into his chest, raging and crying and hollering at a world that has done so little but knock him down.

(This is growth and this is healing, and he found it all one his own.)

And quietly, so quietly, swaying back and forth and round and round, Damian begins to hum.

His voice isn’t perfect, and the tune in its entirety escapes him, and he’s  _ sure _ he’s got some of the words wrong, but-

But it is something.

(Damian thinks of warm arms curled around his shoulders and it feels like home.)

_ “Hey, not giving up today…. there’s nothing getting in my way, and if you knock knock me over, I will get back up again~” _

His muscles are too tight, bracing for someone to start breaking in, someone to find  _ them.  _ He can  _ just  _ hear men crashing through the apartment, shouting orders and curses. But Mattias’ fussing slows, and he peers up at him with wet brown eyes, and Damian smiles, encouraged, and quietly sings the next part. 

_ “And if something goes a little wrong, you can go ahead and bring it on. Because if you knock knock me over, I will get back up again.” _

Quietly, quietly, again and again, Damian sings the bits and pieces he remembers, humming in substitution when the words won’t come. And Mattias stops sniffling and starts giggling, squirming in his arms and doing the small wiggly dance all babies seem prone to do.

And they sit. And they wait. And the minutes drip long and slow.

But they have time. 

(And that is the thing: Damian has had  _ time,  _ and he has more left to him, still.)

The shouting and pounding outside quietens, and Damian breathes and waits and lets the moments pass, gently sitting down when Mattias finally passes out on his shoulder, breath whistling through his nose.

He eats goldfish. He waits.

When the familiar sound of beeping registers in his ears, the teenager’s head perks up and he squints his eyes as Richard’s beaming head pops down into the safe room, bright lighting streaming in. The older man makes an  _ aww _ face upon seeing the sleeping kid, making grabby hands.

Damian awkwardly stands, trying to find some new center of gravity, and then places the kid into Richard’s waiting arms, who in turn lifts him into the light. Damian hauls himself up afterwards, stretching and trying to wake his hands up, feeling the tingling sensations.

They bring Mattias to his parents, who both let out a ragged shout when they see him, something desperate and terrified and so, so relieved. They’re weeping, and thanking him, and pressing kisses to chubby cheeks, and Damian stands awkwardly with his arms folded and thinks  _ I must have been that small once, _ and it aches.

Some things always will.

But then Richard wraps his arm around his shoulder, says quietly and truthfully, “You did a good job today, Robin,” and the ache settles and eases, a small weight in the palm of his hand.

Pain is not always a burden. Sometimes it is just emotions, running its course and flowing down the stream.

He breathes.

“Do you want to watch a movie later?”

Richard blinks, surprised at the question, glancing at him with curious eyes. Damian resists the urge to hunch his shoulders, to turn away. He walks, strides steady and long.

“What kind of movie are you in the mood for?”

Damian shrugs, feels the waft of his cape shift against the back of his calves. 

“I’m fine with anything.”

His brother grins, joyful and present and bright, nudges his shoulder and starts getting into the batmobile, chattering all the while.

“Oh,  _ goodie, _ because let me tell you I’ve been hunkering for a rewatch of  _ Prince of Egypt  _ and the songs have been stuck in my head all week long. It’s ridiculous. I think Amy might actually kill me if I start humming ‘Deliver Us’ again….”

And so it goes, on and on and on. They’ll watch the film, with Richard singing along with all the songs and Damian commenting on the imagery and animation behind the different scenes, the way the colours clash and highlight and drive the story onwards. It will be cold, in that small crummy apartment with its poor central heating and the chilly Gotham night, but he will be under a throw blanket, tucked up by his brother’s side, and all he will feel is warm.

Damian won’t even think to hide his smile, it will shine small and brilliant in all its own glory, somewhere safe in all this quiet dark.

(Tomorrow, he will go out and paint the sunrise, and he will be happy.)

**Author's Note:**

> I always imagine Damian growing up into this young man who's a little quiet and a little severe, with thoughts running through his head too often and too loud, but with this sense of healing that maybe Bruce never had, where his motives align more with Dick's reason's for being a vigilante than Batman's. He uses his words and he's affectionate, even if it's only with close friends and family, and he paints and he takes care of his animals and he let's himself enjoy the things that make him feel light. I just like the idea of this turbulent child growing up and healing and finding himself in the small corners of the world, building his happiness from the ground up, on and on and on.
> 
> If you have any prompts on DC characters you would like to see dancing or just any song reccomendations, I would love love LOVE to hear them!


End file.
